


Trust Fund Baby

by M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bookstores, Class Differences, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Just Married Exchange 2019, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mild Sexual Content, Older Man/Younger Man, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-07-17 05:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19947556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/pseuds/M%20J%20Holyoke
Summary: Shelley thought Sam was marrying him for his money. Hell, Shelley thoughtShelleywas marrying him for his money.Thing was,it just wasn’t true.Well, at least it wasn’t true for Sam. Sam had been head over heels in love with Shelley from that first moment he saw him.





	Trust Fund Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chocolatepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocolatepot/gifts).



Shelley thought Sam was marrying him for his money. Hell, Shelley thought _Shelley_ was marrying him for his money.

Thing was, _it just wasn’t true._ Well, at least it wasn’t true for Sam. Sam had been head over heels in love with Shelley from that first moment he saw him.

The trick was going to be convincing Shelley of that.

* * *

Sam didn’t like to talk about his past. There just wasn’t much to be proud of in it, and because Sam was resolved to turn over a new leaf now that he’d moved to a new city, he reckoned there just wasn’t much for him to say about the first 24 years of his life. He didn’t, truth be told, like talking very much, end of story.

Still, things were going well, all things considered. He had a job with the local indie bookstore, and if being a bookstore’s cleaner and glorified private delivery courier (but not a cashier, since store owner Moira didn’t quite trust him with the money yet) didn’t exactly pay lavishly, it _did_ give him a room rent-free in the building above the store, and that meant it was already a better situation than his last, oh, five gigs prior to this one.

Shelley, on the other hand, was pretty much the living embodiment of the past as it persisted in the present. A handsome “confirmed bachelor” of uncertain but healthy middle age, he was a descendant of James Cartier—yes, _that_ James Cartier—on his grandmother’s side, and thanks to the family money held in trust in his name, he’d never worked a day in his life and had never, evidently, learned the meaning of the word “busy.” He visited the bookstore at least twice a week, if not more, just to socialize with Moira and her (infrequent) customers.

He seemed to love chatting about books and—maybe Sam was just imagining it—he seemed kind of lonely.

Or maybe _Sam_ was the one who was kind of lonely. Whatever. Both were possible.

And Sam knew he did have a bit of a thing for older men. Shelley’s dapper style of dress, old-fashioned steel-framed eyeglasses, and effortlessly genteel manner made Sam blush and stammer and stare down at his feet and otherwise do everything in his personal power to be elsewhere whenever Shelly was around. Mostly, he admired Shelley from afar, watching him come and go from the window above the bookstore.

If Sam did occasionally stroke himself to fantasies of making slow, sweet love to Shelley, well, absolutely no one was being hurt, and absolutely no one needed to be told.

* * *

Sam had been in the job less than a year when the end—or, perhaps, the end of the beginning—came crashing down: Moira was going to close the store and sell the building which housed it. Sam would have to find a new job and place to live before the new owners moved in.

“I’m not getting any younger,” Moira had said, “and books don’t exactly sell themselves these days. I’d like to retire someplace tropical.”

Sam hadn’t known what to say. He’d just nodded and went to buy a copy of the local paper to check the Help Wanted ads.

Shelley, though, had said more. “But Moira,” he’d exclaimed, “your bookstore is a local cultural institution! The city—the community— _we_ need you!”

“I’m sure you’ll all survive without me somehow,” Moira had replied wryly, rolling her eyes. “Especially you, Shelley.”

* * *

Sam didn’t give that particular conversation between Moira and Shelley much thought . . . or any at all, really. In fact, when Moira handed him a paper-wrapped parcel and told him to hand-deliver it to Shelley personally at his home, mostly Sam was just thinking about how nervous and excited he was to see Shelley and wondering what he would say if—when—Shelley opened the door.

When Shelley did open the door, though, he was flushed, and there were angry tears glistening on his cheeks and fogging his old-fashioned eyeglasses. He didn’t give Sam a chance to speak before blurting out, “Sam, will you marry me?!”

Sam blinked. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. The parcel he was meant to deliver hung loosely in one hand, forgotten.

“Oh, it doesn’t have to be a _real_ marriage or anything. We can get divorced after a year or two, so don’t worry. It’s just . . . we just need to convince the lawyers so that they’ll give me unlimited access to the monies associated with my trust fund!”

“Um . . . uh . . . ” Sam, never a brilliant conversationalist, was at a loss for words.

Shelley, all of a sudden, seemed to realize this. “Why don’t you come in?” he suggested, stepping back from the entrance and gesturing for Sam to enter. “You can make yourself comfortable, and I’ll explain everything over afternoon tea.”

Shelley’s apartment was spacious and airy. The furniture looked antique, the rugs looked handwoven and Persian, and every last inch of wall was covered in shelving groaning full of books. They started at the floor and went all the way up to the ceiling. Even the narrow spaces above the doorways had shelving. That could really hurt somebody, Sam reflected, if they happened to be underneath when a shelf broke and dumped all the books onto their head!

“Please, sit down,” Shelley said, gesturing to an overstuffed armchair with real down cushions that seemed to swallow Sam whole when he did as he was bid. “The tea will be ready shortly.”

The full explanation took well over an hour and three cups of tea apiece, and by the end of it, Sam was abuzz, his pulse fluttering, though whether from the caffeine or the specifics of Shelley’s offer, who knew?

It boiled down to this: Shelley wanted to buy Moira’s building and save the bookstore. There was only one small problem—he didn’t have the funds available to do it. Even selling this handsome apartment wouldn’t generate a big enough down payment. He’d need to dip into the money he’d inherited from his grandparents to afford it, and that money was currently locked up in a trust fund which provided him a modest, fixed monthly stipend while leaving the principal untouched.

Shelley’s grandparents had been clear in their will: He would be entitled to the modest stipend only until he was married. Upon the presentation of proof of a legally binding certificate of marriage, the trust fund manager would be authorized to provide Shelley with unlimited and unconditional access to his full inheritance.

Until now, he hadn’t needed it, so it hadn’t mattered. He’d been, well. If not exactly _happy_ , at least he’d been content. And besides, Shelley had always known he was . . . that he was . . .

 _Gay_ , Sam didn’t say. “Yes, I’ll marry you,” he said instead. It was an easy decision with no obvious downsides, and he was completely calm as he spoke. Honestly, he hadn’t really had to think about it.

Shelley was so overjoyed, tears trickling into his neat salt-and-pepper beard, that he forgot himself and kissed Sam right then and there. On the lips.

* * *

The wedding wasn’t a grand affair or anything, and they didn’t tell anybody. A local civil servant in the town municipal building did the honors.

But after a not too unseemly two weeks, Shelley took their crisp new marriage certificate into a meeting with his trust fund manager, and when he emerged again, less than half an hour later, he had the money to buy the bookstore.

What happened next was a bit more complicated, and Sam didn’t fully understand the financial underpinnings, but basically, Shelley had to sell his old apartment and move in with Sam above the bookstore in order to maintain—Shelley said this with self-deprecating irony—the lifestyle to which he was accustomed. He took out some walls and undertook other extensive renovations before moving in, of course, and their new shared digs, especially when outfitted with Shelley’s impressive furnishings and collection of books, were practically palatial to Sam.

As for the bookstore, well, it wasn’t a get-rich-quick scheme since, as Moira had put it, books didn’t exactly sell themselves. Sam and Shelley had to run it, just the two of them, and it was quite the learning curve. Scaling that curve took a while, and they may have tumbled off of it on several embarrassing occasions. By the time they’d successfully scaled it, though, Sam was, at last, allowed behind the cash register.

Convincing Shelley of his true feelings took even more time and patience on Sam’s part. Shelley was so very proper and gentle-hearted, and having already married Sam once for the sake of money, the last thing he’d ever dream of doing was take advantage of Sam _physically_. Nothing Sam said made a difference, and it wasn’t like Sam was particularly good with words anyway.

In the end, he’d had to _show_ him. Graphically. With maximum, in your face sexual explicitness. Plus a very red, very swollen hard on.

As it turned out, making slow, sweet love to Shelley was even better than Sam’s best stroke-fantasies because Shelley also came with a home, a job, and, dammit, marriage vows. Marriage! Who would have believed it?

“I love you,” Shelley said between hot, wet kisses.

“Till death do us part,” Sam whispered as he guided himself home into Shelley and began to thrust.

Heaven was here on Earth with his Trust Fund Baby.

_The End_


End file.
